


and together they fight crime

by thememoriesfire



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam/Rachel, PG, future AU.  Sam gets a job offer at DC Comics and has to interview at their NY headquarters.  Literally the only person he knows who lives there is Rachel Berry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and together they fight crime

**Author's Note:**

> For Goat #1. Always.

All those years of hanging out on CBR pay off in the most ridiculous way.

He gets a private message from Gail, who he’s been arguing with about whether or not Stephanie Brown deserves a return to DC canon and if the fourth reboot of Teen Titans will ever even come close to Young Justice for the better part of two weeks now, and clicks on it over breakfast.  

Quinn’s making some pancakes at the stove and it’s the way it always is: a quiet morning, and she’ll drop off his breakfast and he’ll pass off her thermos of coffee and then they go their separate ways.

Almost six years of living together will do that to two people, he figures, and anyway; her girlfriend doesn’t seem to mind that they’re almost like, psychically bonded at this point.

The pancakes appear to his left when he starts reading the message, and before she can walk off he grabs her arm.  “Dude.”

“Sam, for the eleventy-millionth time, I am not your _dude_ ,” she says, and he rolls his eyes before tugging on her arm again.

“Dude.  Dude, read this.  Am I hallucinating?”

Quinn squints down and peers at the screen, pushing her glasses back up her nose.  He looks at her face, rather than at the screen, and when a look of genuine excitement flashes over it, he grips her hand automatically.  (It’s years of going to church services together, saying grace together, and attending weddings together when he can’t get a date or it’s someone in Quinn’s extended, _seriously_ Christian family who doesn’t know that she’s gay.)

“Respond,” she says, before glancing at him and smiling at him, all teeth.  “ _Now_ , Sam. I don’t think that they’re going to sit around and wait for you.  Or for-- _what_ is your username?”

He blushes and nudges her in the side.  “Leave me alone.”

“SubLink,” she says, and laughs.  “Let me guess; Zelda and Mortal Kombat?”

“I’ve had it since I was like thirteen, okay,” he grumbles at her, and then prods her in the ribs.  “And uh, not to point out the obvious here, but me having that screen name is every bit as dorky as you _knowing_ what it’s referencing.”

She sighs and reaches down for her briefcase.  “You’re so right.  We’ve been living together for too long.”

“Yeah,” he says, and then stares at the message again; he doesn’t fail to notice that she does as well, and a quick look of surprise washes over her face.  “Well.”

“Don’t even think about not responding to that message because of me,” she tells him, in her best head cheerleader voice, which is now just her best marketing exec voice, but no less intimidating.

“I wasn’t, but--”

She puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Sam.  Christina and I have been talking about moving in together, okay?  So if you get this job, and have to move to--”

“New York.  The head offices are in New York,” Sam says, and man, something in his chest spikes with excitement at just saying that much out loud. He’s going to go to New York; interview in _New York_.  They haven’t been there since senior year Nationals.  He associates the entire place with like, gravity-defying odds and total world domination.  It’s a pretty good association to have with the biggest opportunity of his life.

“Huh,” Quinn says, and when Sam glances back at her, she’s got a very particular funny look on her face.  “You know who we know in New York?”

“Not a clue; I mean, it’s not like you spent the better part of two years crying about how straight she is,” Sam says, ducking away when Quinn slaps at his head.

“It was _five months_ and I was going through things,” she says, sternly, and then looks at him again.  “In all seriousness, though--you should get in touch with her.  It’s not like _you_ were her mortal enemy for most of high school.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” he asks, unable to resist, because it will never _not_ be funny that Quinn had the world’s biggest hard-on for Rachel Berry all throughout high school, and they’ve been friends way too long for her to actually kill him for the baiting he’s doing.

She just stares at him and rolls her eyes.  “Whatever.  When you’re done being a _child_ , maybe you can respond to that message and then see if anyone has Rachel’s number.”

The door slams behind her a moment later, and Sam releases a slow breath, because--yeah, maybe someone does.   _He_ has Rachel’s number, because Mercedes put him in charge of organizing their senior year gift exchange and he figures she probably hasn’t changed it.  It’s just never come up, him having Rachel’s number, because drunk Quinn is unpredictable Quinn, and Christina’s cool and doesn’t need to deal with her girlfriend drunk-dialling some girl they once knew back in Ohio.

Still.  He can’t help but wonder for a moment how Rachel’s doing these days; she was like the Superman to the entirety of the Glee club, which was just a collection of Jimmy Olsens and Lana Langs.

*

His message back to Gail is pretty damn simple: _Hell yeah!  Name a time and place._

His message to Rachel is really stupid and awkward: _[beep] Uh... hi.  Rachel?  This is Sam. Sam Evans, from Glee club.  Or well not anymore, obviously, but that’s what you know me from.  I was blonde.  And um, went to church with...  um, you might remember me as Trouty Mouth.  Um.  I know it’s been a really long time but I’m going to be in New York soon and thought maybe we could like.... have a drink.  I don’t know if you drink so if you don’t that’s also fine, we can just... I don’t know.  Maybe do something else.  I don’t really know what people do in New York but I guess you wouldn’t want to go see the Empire State Building because you see it all the time so--I don’t know.  Um.  Yeah.  You have my number now, so I mean, just call back or something and--I hope that you’re like a star now.  I don’t really know anything about Broadway but you should be famous, you deserve it.  Okay.  Thanks.  Bye._

 _*_

Rachel’s message back is like three minutes long; she actually gets cut off in the middle of a list of things of activities that they could engage in to show him the _real_ New York and then calls back, angrily calling his voice mail service “cripplingly unhelpful” before going off on another spiel about how the West Village is actually overrated and SoHo is where the real fun takes place in New York, but she’d be happy to show him around the Bronx if he wanted a feel for New York’s cultural history and...

He laughs when she finally takes a deep breath and says, “A drink would be nice, actually, so call me when you have dates” before hanging up.

None of that would’ve fit in even a single edition mainstream comic; _way_ too much text, he thinks, and then texts her with his planned arrival times and flight number, just in case.  Not that he’s expecting her to come meet him at the gate, but... whatever.  It’s what people do, isn’t it?

*

“I’m a little scared,” he admits, when Quinn’s pulling on his skinny tie and smoothing out his bangs.

“Wear your glasses; they make you look smarter,” she says, and then smiles at him a little. “Like a reverse Clark Kent.”

“No, that’s like a _real_ Clark Kent,” he corrects her, and then shakes out his arms and looks at the outfit she’s put together for him.  “I look like a hipster.”

“You’re going to New York to edit _comic books_ , Sam--”

“Interview to edit comic books.   _Interview_.”

“All I mean is that you need to look a little less Nashville and a little more....”

“Dashing-ville?” he suggests, and she snorts so hard that she then holds her nose with a wince.

“What a shame this interview will require you to talk.  Your chances would be _so_ much better...”

“Stop ribbing him; Sam, you look incredibly handsome _and_ geeky, so that’s exactly what they’ll be looking for,” Christina says, wrapping an arm around Quinn’s waist.  And no, even three years later, he’s not at all stupid enough to say that she’s essentially the investment banker equivalent of Rachel, which is … like a less frantic and more capable of not driving Quinn crazy version of Rachel.  Without singing.

So, really, he should be okay to meet up with the real deal, and kisses them both of on the cheek.  “I’ll call when I get in.”

“Call when you get the job,” Quinn says, and then they look at each other stupidly for a moment because... this is it.  This might be the last time he’s in this apartment and he actually _lives_ there.

Whatever.  The one thing about superheroes is that they don’t get sentimental, and he tries to live by a similar code, because--well, at least his home planet didn’t get blown up.  What’s there to cry about at that point, really?

*

He’s basically shaking by the time he gets off the plane, because New York is a _city_ and Pittsburgh is just this place he and Quinn live, where he knows all the video game and comic book stores and she knows all the good places to get fast service and steaming hot coffee, but New York is like this mammoth creature that he’s going to have to tame all on his own.

Of course, that’s when he squints--and yeah, he _should_ be wearing his glasses, but whatever, some part of him will always be that kid who really wanted to be the quarterback just so he’d stop being such a dork--and sees that....

Oh, my God, she brought a sign.

Not just that; it’s a giant Superman logo with _his name_ in it.

He falters in his step for a moment, and tries to decide if he’s mortified or if this is one of the single most awesome things anyone has ever done for him; nevermind that it’s a girl that he hasn’t seen since the second Christmas at college they all spent back in Lima, and even that is now almost four years ago.

“Sam!” she calls out, like he’s _blind_ or something and can’t see the sign, and … then she points at it, and it’s like he suddenly gets it: that’s Rachel Berry on blast, and she’s not even wearing a really ugly animal sweater or knee high socks anymore, so...

Maybe he kind of owes Quinn an apology, for making fun of her all these years.

He sticks up a hand in greeting, and Rachel lowers the sign and just sort of beams at him, like she’s the NYC personal greeting committee.  He thinks about _Ex Machina_ unwillingly, and she would’ve made a great asset to Mitchell’s election campaign, actually.  Who wouldn’t love New York if this is how it advertised itself?

“It’s so good to see you,” she says, when he’s in range, and then holds him at arms’ length and looks him up and down.  “And--wow, I don’t know what I was expecting; a letterman jacket or a purple hoodie, maybe but... you look great, Sam.”

“Yeah?  Not like I’m trying too hard?” he asks, glancing at the tie and the checkered shirt and his dress pants again.

“This is New York; there’s no such thing as trying too hard,” she says, and just like that, their arms are linked together.  He scrambles for something to say, and settles on, “You look awesome.  Like a star, actually.  Which... you are, obviously, I mean.  You’re on Broadway, right?  Mercedes says you are, so--”

“Off-off,” she says, with a wry little smile.  “It’s not _as_ impressive, but...”

“What?  No way.  That’s like saying that... when Superman just saves a little girl he’s less of a hero than when he saves the entire galaxy.”

Rachel laughs a little and says, “You haven’t changed much, have you?”

“Not yet, but... I think I might, actually, if this all goes well.”

*

She drags him out for lunch at this restaurant where you sort of build your own meal out of miniature vegetables, and he has to fight the urge to start a war between the carrots and the cucumbers on his vegetable side, but Rachel just sort of smirks at him like she knows what he’s thinking.

“I named them all, the first time.  Like they were Polly Pockets.  Do you remember those?”

“Yeah, my little sister had a bunch, actually; Quinn gave them to her when... you know, things were bad,” he says, after a moment.  It’s still not easy for him to talk about; especially not to people he doesn’t know well.

“Are you still in touch with her?” Rachel asks, politely, but he can tell she doesn’t actually care.  Not until he grins and says, “I _live_ with her.”

“Seriously?” she asks, her eyes widening.  “What’s that like?  Are you afraid for your life when you fall asleep?”

He laughs, even though he really should be taking Quinn’s side in this.  “She’s changed a lot.”

“I hope so, for your sake,” Rachel says, before easily changing the subject to what Finn and Kurt are doing, and it’s all really nice; the meal makes him feel like a rabbit, which is a little strange, but it’s _nice_.

It makes him wonder why they weren’t friends, before.

“So what’s the job?” she asks, and that’s when it hits him: because six years ago, she would’ve just been blabbing on about herself and her career, but now that she’s _in it_ , it’s like she’s become a real person.

Rachel Berry 3D.  He kind of likes it.

“Comics continuity editor,” he says, covering his mouth with a hand.

“I have no idea what that means,” she admits, with a small smile.  “I mean, Finn _read_ comics, but the only shared interests we had were winning Glee competitions and having sex, so--”

He almost chokes on the carrot he’s eating, and next thing he knows she’s pressing a glass of water into his hand and patting him on the back.

“Sorry.  Sometimes I forget that not everyone has post-high-school associations with me.”

He coughs and waves her off, and then starts laughing and coughing all over again when he imagines Quinn meeting _this_ Rachel.

She’d be a puddle under the table within ten minutes.

Not that he’s doing much _better_ at taking it in stride, honestly.

*

After lunch, she helps him figure out what the best way to get to the DC head offices is, and flags down a cab for him with a piercingly loud whistle--which is like, the most familiar thing she’s done all day; be _loud_ \--and then saying, “Call me when you’re done; I’m on tonight, but we could have drinks afterwards?  Good news or bad news.  I’ll introduce you to some of my friends, if you like.”

“Sure,” he says, and can’t help a small smile when she lights up again.  He’s not sure he’s ever noticed before that she has dimples, but they’re so _there_ it’s almost like seeing a Jim Lee cover, with all of the pencil lines in sharp relief and--

“I’m glad you got in touch.  I don’t _miss_ Lima, but... we had some special times, didn’t we?” she says, leaning on the door to the cab when he slides in, pulling on his tie again and making sure it’s not getting too crumpled.

“Yeah, we did,” he agrees, and then watches her disappear as the cab takes off.

She’s like a little red-jacketed dot that gets brighter and yet smaller with every block they drive, and it’s not until she’s the size of a pin prick that he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that, first of all, _interview_ , and second of all, _Quinn would kill him_.

*

He nails it.

To be fair, the entire interview was discussing the 2011 reboot and what should’ve stuck around from past continuity, and literally half an hour of bitching about Batgirl later, Dan and Mark are shaking his hand and saying, “Welcome to Gotham”, which is absolutely the _coolest_ thing anyone has ever said to him.

He can’t help his ridiculous fist-pump once he’s back outside, now armed with a badge that gives him access--and it’s awesome, the back is covered in the JLA and a bar code and the front is a picture of him really looking like Barry Allen and Clark Kent’s baby, which...

He wonders for a moment why nobody’s gone _there_ yet, and then hammers his speed dial one, hoping that Quinn isn’t in one of her gazillion meetings.

She answers with that crisp, cool “Fabray” that used to terrify him when he, well, was her ‘boyfriend’ and wondered why she hated him so much, but that now just makes him laugh because he sees her in oversized pajamas, crying at _16 and Pregnant_ on Sunday mornings while eating Golden Grahams out of the box.

“I got it,” she says.

She squeals a little, then says, “Oh, Sam” in like, the proudest voice he's ever heard her use, and then there’s just a deep sigh and, yeah.  That’s all they need, after all this time.

“I’m going to go quit at um, the bank now.  Because... seriously.  Screw the bank,” he says, and laughs.

“How are you celebrating?”

“Um--with some theater people, I think.  Rachel’s taking me out for drinks after her show, and I mean, I guess I’ll go see it because--well, why not?” he says, not entirely sure _why_ he’s rambling but also unable to stop it.

“How is she?” Quinn asks, and then adds a pointed, “I’m asking because we went to school together for years; not because... of that other thing.”

“She’s good.  The city suits her,” he says, which is the most neutral thing he can say.

“Good.”

“Also, um, her legs are still incredible,” he adds, trying not to laugh.

Quinn doesn’t breathe for at least ten seconds, and then says, “I’m selling all your furniture before you even get back here to pack up.”

“Just kidding.  Well, no, I’m not, her legs are amazing, but--”

“Shut up, Sam,” Quinn says, and hangs up on him.

He fist-pumps again, for good measure, and then tugs his tie off and shoves it in his back pocket.  The glasses can stay, though.

*

Rachel’s show is actually _really_ good.

He knows she’s a great singer, because he’s not stupid, but there’s something about seeing her surrounded by other people who are _also_ very good and then just realizing she’s _the best_.  And she’s only like, twenty four now, if even that, but she’s got the entire room in the palm of her hand.

If stage presence was a superpower, Rachel would have a monopoly on it, as far as he’s concerned, and he’s basically the first person in the audience on his feet when the curtains fall and she curtsies.

She soaks up the applause like a sponge, and whatever; she’s _earned_ it.  It’s like how he feels every time a creator actually agrees with his assessment of a character arc on CBR, or whatever.  It’s basically the best feeling in the world, when people admit that you are good at doing what you love.

His hands hurt by the time he stops clapping, and then he sneaks out of the theater before she can spot him, but waits outside until he gets her call.

“We’re on right behind the _actual_ theater district, which--”

“I’m outside,” he says, and she pauses.

“You _saw_ the show?”

“Well, yeah, I mean.  How many times can you go see a Broadway show--”

“Off-off, Sam--”

“Whatever, a _Broadway_ show,” he says, emphatically, “and tell the people sitting next to you that that chick in the lead is like, one of your oldest friends?”

She’s silent for a moment and then says, “Oldest friends, huh?”

“Sure,” he says, even though he’s not entirely sure they were friends before--but that’s obviously going to change, now that she’s the only person he knows in the city.  He’s good at making friends, but... he’ll take ones that come easy, either way.

“Well, in that case--just wait out by the side, we’ll be out in a minute,” she says, quietly, and he shoves his phone back in his pocket and waits for them.

She’s in a short-sleeved sweater that looks really soft, and a pair of jeans that really work for her legs, and she’s taken off most of her make-up and done her hair up in this really messy bun, and he can’t help but think of early 2000s Lois Lane, who was also just kind of awesome looking; like she knew that she was kick-ass and didn’t need to be like, super glamorous or anything.  Clark Kent was hers, no matter what.

“Everyone, this is Sam Evans,” she says, gesturing towards him, and he kicks off from the wall and meets her cast-mates; one of them is a guy who looks sort of like Johnny Depp, and the other girls--Meredith and Emily--are both really pretty and look like dancers.

He feels a little like he did when he first bleached his hair before moving to Lima, except he obviously isn’t bleaching his hair again and when Johnny Depp--whose name is Mitchell--just says, “Great glasses, man” before shaking his hand, he realizes that... maybe cool is just different in New York.

It’s not a bad thing.

*

Rachel’s castmates bow out after two rounds, citing a hectic Saturday schedule, but she waves off Sam’s concern and says, “It’s fine--I could do the show in my sleep right now, and I don’t need more than five hours anyway.”

“Even when you’re drunk?”

She gives him a quirky little smile and says, “It takes a _lot_ more to get me drunk now than it did in high school, Sam.”

He remembers Brittany throwing up on her and sort of laughs and cringes at the same time.  “That’s good, but we should probably go get some coffee anyway; I mean, I have an early flight back tomorrow and I’d like to not throw up all over myself during take-off and landing.”

She drags him to an all-night diner and the slide into the booth opposite each other, and he fishes his tie out of his pocket and dangles it around his neck again.

“Are you and Quinn in a relationship?” she asks, without any preamble, as soon as there’s coffee in front of him.

He laughs breathlessly, and then holds up a hand in apology when she frowns at him, kind of wounded.

“No--sorry, it’s not a weird thing to ask given that... the last time you saw us we probably were like, you know, people who weren’t dating _yet_ but probably should be.”

She sort of shrugs.  “Six years is a long time to be living with the same person.  I don’t think I could’ve managed it with anyone I've dated, let alone someone I’m not.”

“It’s not that hard when … you have a lot in common,” he says, stirring some sugar into his Americano and then passing the bowl to her; she declines and tosses in some Splenda instead, which doesn’t surprise him at all.

“You and Quinn have a lot in common?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.  “What, like... the Christian faith and blond hair?”

“Hardly,” he says, pointing at his own, and then smirking.  “And _she’s_ not a natural blond either.”

“Right,” Rachel says, twisting her neck for a second.  “I always forget; it’s hard to think of her as anything other than gorgeous.  Is she still?”

He laughs and says, “... Rachel, you’re not gay, are you?”

“What?  No!” she calls out, and then rolls her eyes.  “Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, obviously--”

“Quinn will be happy to hear you feel that way.   _And_ that you think she’s gorgeous,” he says, hiding a grin by stirring his coffee some more.

Rachel says nothing for a long moment, and when he glances back up, her mouth is stupidly open.  He almost laughs, but just leans forward and closes it for her instead.

“Quinn is _gay_ ,” she finally says.

“Oh yeah.”

“Quinn _Fabray_ ,” she asks, stressing her last name, like that’s the thing that will make her straight.

“Yep,” he says, and takes a careful sip of his boiling hot coffee.

“Quinn Fabray who fought with me about Finn Hudson for _years_ Quinn Fabray,” Rachel repeats, and blinks at him rapidly.  “Sam, I know I probably have a reputation for being gullible, but...”

“Yeah, the Finn thing,” he says, blowing on his mug and then settling back in the booth.  “She figured out as soon as we left Lima that she really didn’t give a crap about dating Finn but that the idea of _you_ dating someone really drove her up the wall, so...  you know, two years and a lot of therapy later, and she came into my bedroom drunk as a skunk and asked if I’d still love her if she was a lesbian, and.... I mean, obviously I said yes, and then she cried a lot about how hot you were.”

The look on Rachel’s face is indescribable, and he feels like a bit of a dick for dumping this on her with no warning, but it’s _so_ funny that he doesn’t really know how to hold it in.  If they’re going to be friends, once he moves to New York, he has to tell her _something_ , and Quinn’s apoplectic reaction to him being friends with Rachel at all would be impossible to explain otherwise.

“This is possibly the weirdest and greatest moment of my life, all at once,” Rachel finally says, and wraps both of her hands around her mug.

“She has a girlfriend,” Sam finally says, because they should be eased past this.  “Who... kind of looks like you, but don’t worry, she _is_ actually over it.  Her crush, I mean.”

Rachel snorts laughter and then covers her mouth.  “Sorry--I just feel like I’m hallucinating.”

“Flattered?” he asks, unable to help a smile.

“Um, I’m a little stuck on disbelief, but I mean, _obviously_.  The idea that the prettiest girl in the entire school liked _me_ is....”

She stops talking abruptly, like she realizes how stuck in the past this is, and after a moment he says, “She’s not the only one who thought you were hot.  All the guys did, too.”

It works, and she gives him a coy little grin that makes him squirm.  “ _All_ the guys?”

“No comment,” he murmurs, and drinks some more of his coffee.

She laughs easily after that, and shifts conversation to how Saturdays are hell on her feet but she can’t imagine loving anything more.  He tells her that that’s how he’ll feel about deadlines when a bunch of Batcomics are coming out at the same time, and she asks him (for the third time) to explain how it is that Bruce Wayne got to live with all of those young boys without anyone raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t mind explaining, and it’s nigh on five in the morning when they finally head home.

She steps in front of him, and runs her hands down his shoulders and tugs on his tie a little, before wrapping it into a small loop, and then says, “It was really nice seeing you.  And it’s going to be so nice to see you more often.”

“Right?” he agrees, letting her fidget; he’s used to it, with the way Quinn uses him as her personal dress-up doll a lot of the time, and it’s not until she tugs on his tie a little harder that he blinks and thinks, _this is a little different_.

“You know--you’re the only boy that Quinn and I never fought about.”

“Um, well, you actually never fought about boys at all, remember--she wasn’t--” he starts saying, and she cuts him off with a finger to his lips.

“I’m having a really hard time remembering _why_ now, but it probably had something to do with how I was a silly girl who only had eyes for the _other_ quarterback,” she says, in this slow kind of murmur that reminds him of how Lana always talks to Clark on _Smallville,_ except Rachel is more like a Selena Kyle, and that makes him Batman.

He can be Batman, about this, he thinks, and he clears his throat.  

“You were kind of... stupid, back then,” is what comes out.

Okay, so maybe he can’t be _Batman_ , but what he _can_ be is honest:

“And, I mean, so was I.  I had a lot going on, but I also was pretty fixated on just being with someone who would make me look good, which--well, _any_ good story about two people who sort of fall for each other will tell you that that’s just not how things work.”

“Any good story, huh?” she asks, letting her hand slide over until it’s at the back of his neck.

“Uh huh, like...  Lois and Clark, and Peter and Mary Jane, and Bruce and Selena, and--”

He could keep going, but not if she’s going to kiss him like that, obviously, because all he can do is mumble against her mouth until she prods him in the side, and then he’s kissing her back.

“You’re a really nice guy,” she says, when she pulls back, and he tentatively touches his lip.

“Um, normally when girls say that, it’s a prequel to them like, running off with some guy like... Puck,” he points out.

She laughs and says, “I’ve _had_ that phase.  I want... Cyclops.  Not Wolverine.”

“You read comics?” he asks, unable to hide his excitement, because--if that’s not the hottest thing ever...

“I watch movies,” she concedes, and, oh, right.

He winces after a moment.  “... you know, Cyclops and Jean spend like, most of Marvel continuity fighting about stuff and then she goes crazy and almost blows up the entire universe while she’s in a coma...”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“It’s a space coma; also, I’m not a Marvel expert, but...”

She rolls her eyes at him a little, but it’s fond, and he kind of likes it.  “What about... Rogue and... um, Iceboy, then?”

“Rogue can’t touch people; and belongs with Gambit, who isn’t in any of those movies for some stupid reason,” he corrects her.

After a second she smiles.  “Okay.  So--how’s this for a good story; how about we just try to be like _Rachel_ and _Sam_ , and we can see how that goes.”

“Um, I imagine that will go slowly, and without superpowers.”

She looks quietly pleased, and then just shrugs at him goofily.  “I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Comic Book Editor.”

 _That_ is a second to last panel quote, if he’s ever heard one; and he knows what the last panel should be as well.

“That’s me,” he says, unable to feel anything but proud all over again, and then he kisses her again, until she sighs against his lips and he reminds himself that in a real story, these things take time.  “So--see you in two weeks.  For some continuity.”

The way she smiles at him, when he sticks her in a cab home--yeah, he's pretty sure that that's what Clark Kent feels like when he stops a planet from imploding.

It's a good feeling.


End file.
